Cold Comfort
by Mookie Riffic
Summary: [Pre Rent] St. Mark? Unlikely. But why did he stick around? It wasn't because the abuse was a good thing. Perhaps theres a darker side.
1. Highly Unaware

Disclaimer: As we all are aware, if I owned these characters they would be on FictionPress and not FanFiction. Thank you. I won't disclaim again.

Chapter 1 – Highly Unaware

Tightening the belt around his upper arm with his teeth, he grasped the needle and held it over the flame, burning it along its entire length for several moments. Removing the needle from the flame he drew it along his arm to the vein in his wrist, the ones in his forearm worn out from the constant use. Wincing at the pain, but unable to stop himself, he inserted the needle into his wrist and shot the heroin into his arm.

The rush of euphoria that came from the needle caught him up as he removed the belt. He rode the rush like a wave feeling for a brief time completely in control of his life. Once the initial rush wore off he stood and packed his needle and belt into his camera bag's hidden pocket, and dropped the lighter into his pocket. Pulling down his sleeves he walked out of the dark room and into the hall way with a light step, his eyes dilated behind his glasses.

It was 1985, and most days Mark Cohen was too high to realize what the date was. To all outward appearances he was a normal person, slightly with drawn from the world, but with a bright promising career making documentaries and other films. What the world didn't see was his constant use of heroine, taking it in any form he could get, hiding it from his family and friends. He had started heroin half a year ago, and had quickly become dependent on it. Most time's it was only that he was such a creature of habit that he could get up in the morning and arrive at the news station in order for his shift as an intern to start.

Mark Cohen had the world in front of him, and he was addicted to smack. On this particular winter day he took his normal route home from the new station, riding the subway to the out skirts of town. He stopped and went into a 7-11 store and bought his normal, Welch's Grape Soda, and if he paid for his dollar soda with a twenty dollar bill, and received only three ones and a small white bag as change, no one commented.

Continuing down the street to a bus station, he caught his normal express bus to Scarsdale and continued the daily trek home to his parent's house. His bag of white powder was securely hidden in his camera bag. He entered the house just in time to sit down to a meal, eating little, though his mother forced plenty upon him. His mother started clearing the table, and just like always, Mark excused himself, and got his bag. He kissed his mothers cheek and bade his father a good night before heading down to the basement where he had his own personal studio where he would "work" until long hours of the night had passed.

Thus was Mark Cohen's life in the year 1985.

a/n: One of a series of new stories about to come out from me and MissHollywood


	2. Descend to Consume

Chapter 2 – Descend to Consume

November 23, 1986 Mark Cohen was passed out on his couch in his parent's bed room. He shot up only a few hours earlier, and was just beginning to feel the itch for another hit. He managed to stay personally convinced that he wasn't addicted and could stop at any time. The fire detector was going off, it's obnoxious beeping just barely penetrating Mark's drug haze. His muddled mind wrote it off as an alarm clock, thinking that it would just go away after a few minutes, but the sound did not recede. It wasn't until breathing in a lung full of smoke that Mark returned to the land of the conscious, and with a cough rolled off the couch.

The smoke filled the room, and Mark barely understood what was happening. He had just enough lucidity to grab his precious camera bag and start crawling for the door. As he breathed in the smoke and it ran through his system it burned away the drug. Thinking with more clarity than he had in months he had the random thought that maybe it wasn't the camera that made the bag precious, but the stash and supplies that were kept in its interior pocket.

He reached the stairs and was met by a wall of flame; it was crawling towards him like a monster, hugging the stair treads as it descended. To Mark it seemed as if the wrath of God had started to descend, with the fires of hell coming to gather him up in their warm embrace and carry him off to his millennium of torture. He gave a whimper as the fires approached towards him, they were close enough to lick his track-riddled forearms. The smell of burning flesh wafted to his nose, startling him so he crawled back wards, his eyes never left the monstrous being that came closer and closer to him every second.

With barely a look around he backed up into the bath room, moving by instinct alone as random phrases of his child hood flickered through his mind. Stop. Drop. Roll. Stay close to the ground. Know the exits. Have escape routes. Change the batteries every six months. Have a safe meeting spot. He crawled into the bath tub and turned on the water. Shivering under the freezing cold water, the heat of the fire played upon his skin, the sensation reminding him of right after shooting up.

The fire surrounded him, and he stayed curled up under the cold water, shivering while he felt his skin become tight across his bones. The fire crept closer and closer, and the last thought he had before he let go for the fires to consume him was to wonder if Joan of Arc had felt the same way before her death.

a/n: whats better: short chaptersmore often, or longer chapters less often? Give me feed back.


	3. Precious Powder

Chapter 3 – Precious Powder

He awoke shivering with his entire body shaking. The room was a pale green, and he concentrated on this fact with all of his might, trying to control himself. The ceiling was white, and the floor was checkered with white and the green. The bed was odd; he couldn't move his arms, for they were tied down. He didn't understand completely what was going on, but he thought he had a fairly good idea.

He hurt like hell or at least he did once he got past the symptoms that he was now realizing were withdrawal. Every part of him hurt, and he vaguely remembered a dream, or hallucination of a monster made completely of fire coming after him. He shook his head to chase away the vision, and that's when he noticed something about his head. He wasn't completely sure, but he was pretty positive his hair had disappeared.

- Good afternoon Mark - A doctor had entered the room and was staring at Mark. He tried to talk, to respond but found his mouth dry and he was shaking too hard. - Don't bother to talk, its okay. I just wanted to tell you what was going on. You were trapped in your basement by fire, but you were smart enough to hide in the shower. You're strapped down so that you don't pull out the IVs. Since your arm veins are collapsed and over used, we had to shave what was left of your hair, most was singed off, and put the IVs there. Your parents know about your heroin use, and have already signed you into rehab starting now - and with that, the doctor walked out of the room.

Mark's mind froze and concentrated on the idea, it grasped the idea, tried to swallow it. And just like a person who tries to swallow something they find revolting, he threw up the idea, his mind just not accepting it. The shakes continued, and Mark stared at the ceiling waiting for them to stop, humiliated as nurses came and went and saw the state he was in. Ironically, his camera bag was only three feet away from him. It was still closed, with the little lock still securely attached with no tampering that he could see. The key was normally worn around his neck on a long chain, and while the chain and key weren't present, there was a spot on chest that he could just barely see, a burn in the shape of the key; he was branded by his addiction.

More nurses came and went, Mark continued to ponder and to try and control himself, and it wasn't until the ultimate humiliation of relieving himself with out any control that he finally broke down. He wept tears for his loss, though what that loss was he still wasn't sure. Not completely. He was left alone in the room, the nurse not due back for another 30 minutes, and all he could do was lay there, strapped down, unable to even clean himself up. The ultimate humiliation. And his mom came in.

The little jewish woman stared at her son, not understanding what had brought him to this state of drug use. She berated herself for not seeing the signs and for not stopping him. Her mother instinct was on full, all she wanted was to go to her son and gather him in her arms, protecting him from the fate of the world. Mark laid in the bed, looking at his mother's face as her emotions and thought played across it. He tried to pretend sleep, but the stink of his bedding and the shakes prevented it. –Mark? Honey, how could you – his mother gave a sob. Mark knew he should feel remorse, but as his mother called –Mark, how could you? Why? What drove it – he just felt tired, he could feel nothing but the pain of his addiction. He couldn't fight past it. – Oh Mark –

– Alice? Where are you? I told you not to visit him – Enter the father figure. His father considered himself the epitome of manliness, and he had always made it known to Mark that he was considered inferior for no matter how much Mark had tried, he could never gain the girth and muscle of a 'real man'. Mark was stronger though, stronger by far than his father, but it was all wiry muscle –He's being transferred to the rehab wing – the gaze bestowed upon his son was one of disgust – two months – he had to go two months with out his precious powder. Mark knew he would leave the rehab either clean forever, or thirsting for the water like a man in the desert whose canteen had sprung a leak.

– He's coming home again, William, right? He is isn't he? – His father ignored his mothers question and looked at Mark. – You better be clean, boy. You aren't coming home again, never again. Cindy is a good kid… I wont have her corrupted – there was so much Mark could of said, Cindy was a whore, Cindy had already been pregnant once, it was Mark who took her to be taken care of, but Mark kept silent. He couldn't have spoken if he tried.

The silence in the room floated down upon the three occupants. It lay upon them like a tarp stretched taught and weighed down at all the corners. It was drowning them, sucking them into it like just a little bit of water in a puddle will drown a baby; they were helpless against the forces acting upon them. – No more visits Alice. I'll give him enough money to either pay six months rent, or to over dose on that precious powder and then I'm done with him – it seemed to Mark that he was being abandoned. He was abandoned as they walked out of the room.

A/n: Review already. Damn. Is it too intense or something? Feedback keeps Mookie motivated.


	4. Residing on Avenue B

Chapter 4 – Residing on Avenue B

Detox: (d-tks) _Informal_ _tr.v._ **de·toxed,** **de·tox·ing,** **de·tox·es **

To subject to detoxification.

the process of removing drugs or alcohols from a body system.

the hospital ward or clinic in which patients are detoxified

Hell.

Mark Cohen looked at the man sitting in the chair across from him and he lied – yes, feel better then I have all year, withdrawal is barely felt, uh huh – rehab was killing him. He had a week left, and then he was out, and would never have to return to this place with its pea-green walls, its twice daily 'talk' sessions, and it's preaching twelve-step program. He was a master of lies and hidden secrets now, during the day he looked and acted like a normal person, sometimes even being confused with the staff by outsiders, but during the night was when the real trials started.

The shakes, the bone aches, the stomach cramps, the heaving, and the craving almost drove him mad. He never made a sound, for fear of waking his roommate or alerting the staff. He faked it every day of those two months, pretending that everything was getting better. He laughed and joke, he encouraged others to bear with it, telling people that they could beat it. He lied, and became the master of living outside of himself, disconnected from himself, others, and his painful addiction that he had no control over, or desire to control. All Mark cared about was getting out the Detox center so that he could go get high.

Two months went by in the Detox center before Mark saw his father again. Walking in the door, William Cohen glanced at his son and went straight to the nurses' desk. Everything was efficient with William Cohen; no effort would be lost, he wrote the check, signed the paper, and walked out with out a glance behind him. Mark followed his father, not knowing what else to do, but that the nurses said he was free to go. Outside he followed his father until they reached the car. His father looked at him before reaching into the front seat of the car. He handed Mark a duffle bag, Mark grunted a thanks, and pulled out his pocket book and wrote another check. Handing the check along with a piece of stationary with an address written on it he looked at his son. – Son, I don't want you to come back home. Maybe in a few years. – The old bastard seemed to soften for a moment at the idea of saying goodbye to his son for the last time. Logically it did not have to be forever, but the old man knew in his heart it would be. Both men looked at each other for a moment, both wondering at their decisions but to stubborn to say anything.

The last thing William did before he drove out of his son's life was to pick up a scarf from the passenger seat. He wrapped it carefully around Mark's throat – your mother made it so that you could hide the burn marks – Mark was left standing in the parking garage with a duffle bag at his feet, and his camera bag slung over his shoulder. His scarf hung around his neck, hiding the brand of his addiction, with his long sleeves hiding the foot prints of the monster that took over his life.

Mark walked out of the parking garage and down the road towards the train station. He got a one way ticket into the city and sat staring at it. Finally remembering the stationary that he had clutched in his hand he looked at it, reading the words. – Mark, here's the address of an apartment. We hope you go, there's 6 months rent has been paid. You have 6 months worth of rent in that check. What you do is your choice, but we hope you will rebuild so you can come back home at some point. I know your father is harsh, but he does love you. That scarf? I hope you like it; I tired to make it 'manly'. Keep it okay honey? It gets cold in the city. – The train pulled up to the station and Mark boarded it for New York City, the new home of Mark Cohen, who would reside on Avenue B.


	5. Desired Forgetting

Chapter 5 – Desired Forgetting

Mark Cohen lasted three weeks before he went back to his drugs, back to the smack.

What changed? Mark never really knew, for he blocked the memory, but it was a truly catastrophic event, at the end of it, all he knew was that he was high, and he missed it.

He had been walking down the block to go back to his apartment; it was late at night, almost 2 am. Crossing the street he was stopped by a young-looking kid, the kid asking for a few bucks. Heedless to caution he started to reach into his pocket when he felt something fall on the back of his head.

When he next woke up, the scarf wasn't around his throat and he couldn't move his wrists. His arms were numb, they felt like a dead weight hanging from his shoulders, and all he could see was a man standing above him pulling his pants up. The man zipped up his pants and spit on him. He muttered something that Mark couldn't hear before walking away, out of the alley. Struggling to sit up, with feeling returning to his arms in painful pierces, he managed to get his wrists in front of him, and using his wrists unbound the scarf from around them. Quickly he wrapped the scarf around his neck, hiding the brand, and stood up, pulling up his torn pants at the same time. His clothing was a mess, and he only had no recollection of what had happened after he was knocked unconscious.

Not sure where he was going, he stumbled out of the alley way, standing on the corner looking around to get his bearings. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and despite the fact that his clothes were torn and stained, he kept on. He was only a block away from his apartment, but that's not where he wanted to go. Walking down to the lowest part of town he found a man in an alley way and proceeded to beg. – Come on man, I just need some. No, I can't pay, god, can't you tell? I don't have anything on me. Come on, just this once? – the man refused to give anything away for free though.

He was desperate enough for what the man had that he was willing to do anything, anything to forget the crimes. So for the second time that night his trousers were pulled down and he was humiliated. But at the end of this second humiliation he was handed a little bag, a complete kit of everything he needed. Not even bothering to move from behind the dumpster where the dealer had abused him, he shot up, waiting for the rush that would fade to numbness start. Mark only desired to forget the night, and forget he did.

The next time he stumbled into his apartment, he remembered nothing, and just collapsed on his couch.

The next morning the only thought he had about the previous day was that it was a good thing he hadn't taken his camera with him.

a/n: not my favorite chapter, not at all, but I needed something to move the plot along a little bit so I could get to where I planned. Read and review please.


	6. See Through

Chapter 6 – See Through

January 1987, Mark Cohen sat in the middle of his broken down loft, staring at a list of potential roommates when the door opened. – I got a fish! I got a fish fit for a king! Whoa – Mark stared at the obviously stoned and drunken man in front of him, wondering what was going on. Random strangers that waved fish over their heads were not supposed to randomly burst into his apartment.

The stoner stared at Mark for a brief second before sitting down. – Whoa. Did you know that most great philosophers were stoned? Guess what! I'm stoned! – Mark stared at him, not saying a word, until the stoned philosopher looked at his fish again, and then at Mark before saying – I'm Collins. Want fish? – not knowing what else to do, Mark took the out stretched fish and gently laid it on the couch next to him. Introducing himself, Mark calmly asked the Collins-fellow what he was doing in Marks apartment.

- I live here now! – Mark shook his head, - no you don't. This is my apartment – it was then Collins' turn to shake his head. – Nope! I saw the flier. Here's the rent.- the stoner passed Mark a large wad of money. Mark couldn't believe it, especially since it was all twenty's.

Still not believing it, Mark got up and put the money in his camera bag, turning around he looked at Collins again, studying him. The man looked to be humerous. Seemed to be a fairly kind soul and not to over bearing. – And hey, he already paid me the rent. – Mark thought. – Alright, you can stay. Your room's over there. – Collins looked up in glee at the words and went into his room, softly closing the door. Mark shook his head and went into the bath room, making sure he took his camera case with him. It had been too long.

Mark opened the camera bag looking for his stash, when the realization that he ran out hit him. Damn. He could already feel the effects of going too long with out it, so he closed up his bag and went back out into the main room. He knocked on his new roommate's door – Hey, stoner, I'm going out. Make food – and with that, he walked out the door.

He walked down the street to where he knew the dealer would be. He wasn't worried, he knew he would be able to get some more smack no problem. After being an established customer for nearly 5 months, there was no reason why the dealer could refuse him. When he approached the dealer he stood some distance away, watching as the dealer led a young man into the alley way, and carefully explained how to use the kit. The dealer tapped the kid's unmarred arm, and the kid just stared. Mark watched on as the kid began the process. He wrapped a rubber band around his arm and inexpertly started to try and find a vain. The man was patient, not wanting to loose a potential repeat customer. The kid, who Mark was soon realizing wasn't an actual kid, but possibly a year or two older then him found the vain finally, and with a deep breath put the needle in. The man injected the drugs as and the dealer took the rubber band off his arm, helping the kid to his feet. The kid's eyes were already starting to get glassy, and he walked out of the alley, as steady as he could. The kid looked at Mark briefly, his green eye's not even seeing Mark, but seeing through him.

Shaking off the kid's gaze Mark walked into the alley way, and gave the dealer some of his cash. He received the packet of white powder and stashed it in his camera.

Walking back to his apartment Mark thought of the powder, wondering if he should bother to hide it from his new roommate. He decided to use caution and hide it, understanding that weed and smack were on two entirely different levels. He walked back to the apartment and went straight into the bathroom.

A/n: yay for getting smacked with the muse stick, still not the best, but I need to start working the other characters into it. I know where its going, I'm just trying to get to it.

Oh, I know the fish bit seems weird, but its actually an homage to the origional, and I mean _origional_ Rent influence. As I'm sure at least some of you know, Rent was based off of Puccini's La Boheme. But Puccini didn't come up with the story line exactly either, La Boheme was based off of Bohemeians in the Latin Quarter (you can google a copy of it up, its in public domain). Its quite facinating comparing the differences between the three works. The only character to keep their name was Mimi. Mark's origional name was Marcello, with Roger being Rodolfo. Collins was actually Colline (its french) with Angel being Alexander Shunard. But I'm done babbling about that... so read and review.


	7. Subconscious Memories

Chapter 7 – Subconscious Memories

If there were three things Mark Cohen loved in the world: heroin, sex, and his camera, in that order. Mark especially enjoyed combining former two, and when he could combine all three, he was truly happy.

Mark Cohen was officially a sell-out, though not in a traditional sense. True he wasn't working for the tabloids and twisting and editing his footage to make the story look as bad as could be, no, he was worse; he was filming porn. His money was running out, and with no clear source of income Mark was getting worried. He still had Collins as a roommate, and that helped extend the time he could get away with not paying rent, and it helped even more when Collins brought in a new roommate. Mark hadn't really paid attention to him; he always seemed standoffish and was constantly at work. His name was Benny something something the third. He only remembered the third because the prick said it every time he introduced himself.

But despite the roommates, his addiction was sucking up all his money faster then he would like; so he struck a deal. In return for his services as a camera man his dealer would supply him. The man even gave him a new camera, the latest technology you could find in a handheld. Mark hadn't know what he would be filming when he made the deal, but the idea of free smack for doing something he enjoyed enticed him, and now that he was working he had too constant a supply of the drug to care what he was filming.

It was usually the same set up where he'd arrive at the warehouse, the dealer would give him his drugs, and then after shooting up they'd go to the "Studio" and shoot. He was never in the movies themselves, nor did he ever touch the people who were in them, but he enjoyed it none the less. The carnal expressions on the faces enticed him, and he was happy enough to let them have the real fun. He also never got to keep his footage, it was always taken immediately by the dealer, who would rough cut it himself enough to start selling.

Complaining about the situation just wasn't possible, he had everything after all. But one day, after crashing from his high, Mark began to seriously try to remember what he had shot that afternoon, or the afternoon before it. He was alarmed at how little he remembered, but he did began to contemplate and try to recollect as much as possible. He scribbled down what he could remember, writing it on the back of a pizza box. He had just enough talent to do rough sketches of people, so he closed his eyes and relaxed, doing an old trick he had been taught years ago. He brought the pieces of memory to the forefront of his mind and began to sketch on the box, not looking at what he was drawing, for that would influence it, he turned the shadowy memories over in his head, waiting until he was sure he would have something solid come out of his sketch.

He was curious to see what emerged from his memory that he didn't actively recall, his subconscious memory, but when his pen finally stopped moving he was reluctant to open his eyes. – What – he thought – will I find? Would I be concerned? It can't be that bad – he figured – after all, if it was I would have remembered it, right? – he opened his eyes and stared at the cardboard box, amazed at the image that greeted him.

It was a little girl with her dress in rags at her feet, with a single tear coming out of her eye.


	8. Sell your Soul

Disclaimer: Get over it. I don't own, duh.

Chapter 8 – Sell Your Soul

He had decided he had to confront the dealer and figure out exactly what was going on. Mark didn't have a problem filming pornography, but if his little pizza box doodle, which he kept in his wallet, was true, then he was filming child pornography. That just wasn't going to fly by him. He was a sell out, an addict, a junkie, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be involved in corrupting innocent little girls, that was just too much and he wasn't quite that far gone into his addiction. Or so he reasoned.

It took him two weeks to gather the courage to confront the dealer, and then another three recovering from the beating he had taken. Even his apathetic roommates had noticed when Mark had returned to the loft beaten and bloody, with his shoulder dislocated. Up until then neither Collins nor Benny had cared what happened to them, – sure – they figured – we live with the guy, but he's a junkie, so why should we bother? – But bothered they did, when they saw him in such a state, and they had no idea why. Benny just chalked it up to the drugs and a bad deal going down, but Collins thought that maybe it might have been something more.

Mark retreated into his room after coming home, right after Collins cleaned him up a bit and popped his shoulder back into its socket, and he didn't come back out for nearly a week. When he finally did Benny was no where to seen, neither was his stuff. Mark simply snorted and walked into the "kitchen" area. – Yo, fish man, where's the pig? – Fish man was his nickname for Collins, he had decided real early that Collins shouldn't be allowed to live it down. And the pig was Benny, for he acted like a stuck up yuppie pig.

– Said he didn't want to hang around a junkie. Didn't want to get involved with a drug fight – Shocked Mark dropped the bowl of cereal he had just gotten. – What the fuck did you just call me? –

– A junkie man. I know its true – Mark cringed and tried to pull down his shirtsleeves even more. He had yet to admit he was indeed a junkie, though he wasn't stereotypical looking. Stereotypical was that kid with the green eyes he saw that day Collins moved in, the one with the green eyes, that kid was stereotypical. Not Mark. Musing to himself, he just figured there was an exception to everything, and him being a junkie proved that it didn't matter who or what you were, the drug would still take you prisoner.

– It had nothing to do with drug, fish. – And Mark walked out of the room refusing to meet his roommates eye. He didn't want to have to tell him the truth, about the evil images his camera had captured of the little girl crying as she was made to do things.

Inside his room he looked around for more of his stash, and with a sinking feeling he realized he was out. Knowing another hit was needed with in a few hours or he would start shaking. He knew this because he often let himself to get that far, teasing his body by withholding the drug so that when did finally receive it, the rush was so much more powerful. It took more and more to get the same effect now. – fuck – he would need cash to get more smack now, he couldn't go back to his old dealer, or at least not yet, and that meant paying higher prices to someone whom he didn't know and whom didn't no him. – shit –

Counting his money he realized he didn't have much left. He was officially running out, and he didn't know what else to do. He looked around his room to see what he could pawn, he saw his two cameras, the one he came with and the newer, nicer one his dealer had given him. He grabbed up his old 16mm camera and put it in his bag and walked out the loft door.

There was a pawnshop he knew of that specialized in camera and sound equipment, he had gone there many times when he was younger, before getting hooked on smack, and had sat and just talked with the owner for hours. He knew he would get a better then fair price. Walking the distance to the shop wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, though he was still winded when he got there, as he opened the door the clerks face brightened when they recognized him. – Mark! Oh my god! How good to see you! - He didn't even remember the girl's name.

- Oh hi. Um, I'm fine. Just wanted to see what you guys would offer me for this – he put the bag on the counter and pulled out his camera. – Oh Mark! You're selling that? It was your first camera! Why? Did you get something newer? Such a shame… Well… I'll tell you what, since you're a good friend, though you don't come by nearly enough, I'll give you top rate… 100 dollars – she looked so pleased, as if he was doing her a favor. Mark stared at her… and then got angry.

- A hundred dollars! That's all this fuckin' piece of shit is worth! You have to be fuckin' joking! This is in mint condition! You fuckin' bitch. Give me the money. – he waited while she got the money, she was crying, god he didn't want to deal with that. His hands had started shaking and he was craving a hit. He snatched the money out of her hand as soon as she held it out and walked out the door. He didn't look back as the woman cried and wondered what happened to her old friend.

Burning bridges was something he was good at lately, except he had no idea he did it until after it was done. Sometimes not even then.

A/n: Hope you're enjoying this. I know updates have been sporatic, but its hard to write this. I actually have a couple other fics in the works, but I'm going to try to get them either done or almost done before I start posting so I don't have this problem. Read, Review, you know the drill.


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